Murder Masquerade
by EightSixEightSeven
Summary: The Dark Knight embarks upon an investigation into the murder of a British national, but does not realise that this will lead him not only to face his old enemies the Joker and Harley Quinn, but also another individual with sinister aims.


**BATMAN**

**MURDER MASQUERADE**

BY R A HENDERSON

**PROLOGUE**

The rain had started to come down harder now, hammering on the top of Nigel Claverdon's bald head and stinging the backs of his large ears. That wasn't necessarily a bad thing; yes, it was physically uncomfortable for him, but he could tolerate it, and the worsening of the weather would drive people off the streets and make his escape that little bit easier. He knew that by now there would be plenty of heavy-boys out looking for him and he wouldn't have much time left. Keeping in the shadows, he looked out from the alley to the other side of the road. There was a small hatchback parked outside a drugstore. He had seen the owner get out and lock the vehicle up and then go into the store, and through the window Claverdon could clearly see, despite the rain, the small middle-aged woman arguing with the drugstore owner about an obviously sub-standard product which the shopkeeper or assistant refused to take back because it had been opened. The rest of the street was clear. It wasn't exactly a thoroughfare in the middle of the day, and at this time of night it rarely saw action at all. Claverdon pulled a tennis ball from the pocket of his thick overcoat and ran across the road. The ball had a hole cut right through it, and as soon as Claverdon reached the car he quickly slammed the hole in one side of the ball against the lock of the driver door and hit the hole in the other side hard with a closed fist. The door popped open, Claverdon bundled himself inside and whipped a tiny toolkit in a plastic case from his other pocket. It didn't take him long to bypass the ignition and he gunned the engine. The woman in the drugstore shrieked as she saw her car rush away and dashed out of the shop, shouting and swearing. She slipped on the wet paving stones and landed on her back, injuring her head.

Carey heard the screech of tyres in the next street. 'Somebody's in a rush,' he laughed wickedly, guessing that it was the sound of his prey.

'It's him,' Judd grunted, having guessed the same thing, and pulled the car around in the direction from which the noise had come. Their car just reached the junction of the two streets as the little hatchback rushed past, and Judd swung the Buick into the road after it and floored the accelerator. 'Shoot him,' he ordered Carey.

Carey had anticipated this and already produced his gun. Rain sprayed in his face as he wound down the window and positively assaulted it as he leaned out and aimed the gun at the back of the tiny purple hatchback. There was rain filling Carey's eyes. 'I can't see him!' the gunman spluttered.

'It's okay,' Judd answered. 'He's taking the tunnel.'

'Dumbass,' laughed Carey. 'He don't see this rain's the only thing keeping him alive.'

'Carey, just shut the hell up and shoot him,' Judd snapped. 'We ain't got time for jokes.'

'Roger that, Mr Judd,' Carey answered cheerfully, refusing to let the miserable asshole spoil his fun. The car entered the tunnel behind the hatchback, and with the rain out of his eyes Carey could get a clear shot. He opened fire but only managed to blow the left indicator.

'Try again!' growled Judd. 'And look where you're goddamn shooting next time!'

Carey levelled up and fired again. The rear windscreen shattered and the purple car hurtled out of control, scraping at speed along the wall of the tunnel, showering sparks everywhere. 'I got him!' Carey yelled excitedly.

'We'll throw the party later,' Judd said. 'For now let's just get the fuck out of here before…'

It was too late. They both heard – and felt – something hitting the roof of the Buick as it came out of the tunnel.

'Somebody's on the roof!' Carey yelled. 'Who the hell can get on the roof of a moving car in a tunnel?'

'It's the Bat, you asshole,' Judd roared. 'Shoot him.'

Carey pointed his gun upwards and began shooting holes in the car roof. 'Dance for daddy, Bat,' he chuckled as he fired.

The rear windscreen was suddenly smashed right through as a huge dark figure slid onto the car's back seat from outside. Lightning-fast black-clad arms sprang out and locked around Carey's throat. Carey tried to twist his arm back in the awkward space to get a clear shot at the intruder, but a black-armoured leg whipped around the forearm and gripped it, then slammed down hard, inverting the arm and breaking it. Carey howled.

Judd was going for his gun, one hand still on the steering wheel, struggling to handle the tasks of driving and defending himself at the same time. He was swerving all over the place but keeping in a safe lane. He was glad the windscreen wipers were working. He produced his gun but something whipped past his face and hit the dashboard. As the Batarang dug into the console, the wipers stopped working and the windscreen became a blur. Panicking, Judd decided he'd have to take a chance and just shoot. He took his eyes off the road for a second.

The car hit something.

The gun was knocked out of his hand and fell down in front of the gearbox. Carey was still struggling and writhing, trying to get free of Batman's grip. Judd could feel the car spinning, skidding sideways up the road. It could flip over at any moment. The job was done. Claverdon was dead and there was nothing worth risking his life for. Carey was on his own. Judd popped the driver door and threw himself out of the car, silently whispering a prayer that he was not about to roll immediately into the path of another one. His prayer was not answered. God's only mercy to Judd was that his death, though rather messy, was quick.

With his good arm, Carey reached down to try and get Judd's abandoned gun, but just as his fingers brushed it the car flipped over. For a moment Carey felt like he was in a spin drier, going round and round, faster and faster. He vaguely recalled a fairground ride when he was six that made him hurl all over the tarmac as soon as he was back on solid ground. He wondered if he'd ever be on solid ground again, and as he blacked out he accepted that it was unlikely, though in death he would at least have the comfort of being remembered as the man who killed the Batman.

When the giant caped figure slapped him awake at the bottom of a grassy bank about fifty feet from the burning wreck of a Buick, Carey didn't know whether to feel relieved or disappointed, though he was spared his ambivalence by the overwhelming sensation of fear. 'What do you want?' he cried desperately. 'I swear, I'll tell you anything! Just let me go.'

'Who paid you to kill Claverdon?' Batman demanded. 'And why?'

'I don't know,' Carey wailed. 'I swear to God. Judd was running things. He was the only one who had contact with the client. He didn't tell me nothin', I swear!'

Sirens rang out in the distance. 'The cops are coming,' Batman told Carey. 'Surrender yourself. Don't try to run. If you're not in custody by daylight, I'll come looking for you.'

'Yessir, Mr Bat,' Carey nodded rapidly in sheer terror. 'Anything you say.'

Batman released Carey's collar and vanished into the darkness and rain. Carey watched him go, listening to the sirens moving in as the police cars pulled over at the side of the road that topped the bank above him. The sirens cut off and a couple of cops came down. 'Michael Carey?' one of them called.

'Yeah?' Carey gibbered back.

'You're under arrest,' the cop said and began reading him his rights.

Carey sighed. I'm under arrest, he thought. Thank God for that.

**ONE**

Commissioner Gordon was waiting at the usual place when Batman arrived. As usual, the dark figure dropped gracefully out of the night sky on a wire and landed on the roof with the ease of an award-winning gymnast and then simply walked up to the Commissioner as if greeting a guest at a dinner dance. 'Nigel Claverdon,' Batman said instantly. Any practice of formality between himself and Gordon had been forgotten and abandoned a long time ago.

'No one we know,' Gordon answered. 'He came into Gotham about six weeks ago. He's a British citizen.'

'What was he doing here?'

'Reporting for a London magazine. We checked with a local news agency that was collaborating with him. He was travelling across America studying and writing articles about crime and how different it is from the kind the British people are used to.'

'He made a mistake when he put Gotham on his itinerary,' another voice said, and Batman glanced at Renee Montoya. 'You'd think he'd know the city's reputation if he's been doing that much digging.'

'He knew more than that,' said Batman. 'I think he witnessed something, or discovered something, that compromised the operations of a powerful criminal.'

Montoya shrugged. 'What brings you to that conclusion.'

'Somebody hired two mercenaries to kill him,' Batman explained. 'That kind of business costs a lot of money and people don't do it unless they have a lot more than just money to lose.'

'Mercenaries?' scoffed Montoya. 'Teo Judd and Mickey Carey? They're just borderline thugs. Judd's an ex-ghetto nobody with a stick up his ass and Carey's just one of the few slack-jawed yokels whose mama taught him to shoot straight.'

'Judd's dead,' Batman said sharply. 'And don't underestimate Carey. He's recently earned a reputation as a number one hitman. He can make fifteen thousand dollars for a single job.'

'Not anymore he can't,' Gordon said. 'We brought him in about ten minutes before you got here.'

Batman nodded. 'I know. I was the anonymous caller. Find out everything you can about the job from Carey. He told me Judd was running the operation, but he's lying.'

'How can you be sure?' asked Montoya.

'Judd wasn't what anyone would call organised,' Batman answered. 'Even with a good contact it's unlikely he could've tracked down Claverdon while he was running. Either Carey was running the show or someone smarter was helping both of them. Either way, I need to know why Claverdon was being hunted.'

Gordon nodded. 'All right. What are you going to do in the meantime?'

'Eat,' said Batman, nodding toward the creeping red of sunrise in the sky. 'It's almost time for breakfast.' And he vanished as easily as he had appeared.

Montoya looked up at Gordon. 'He's a pretty strange guy, huh sir?'

'He's been going out for years now in the dead of night in a bat costume beating up criminals, and you notice that now?' Gordon joked. Then he sighed. 'But he's right. Go get something to eat.'

'And you, sir?'

'I need a cigar.'

'I thought Mrs Gordon didn't like you smoking, sir.'

'For once,' Gordon said, 'Sarah can live in blissful ignorance.'

'Pretty impressive turnout,' Clark Kent smiled as he looked around the massive gardens of Bruce Wayne's private mansion, gardens that were filled with tables and people and barbecues. Hired waiters and waitresses bustled back and forth offering guests food and drink and barbecue chefs stood at the grills preparing burgers, hotdogs, roast pork sandwiches and all manner of other delicious snacks.

Bruce Wayne himself was eating a roast pork sandwich with salad and mustard mayonnaise and enjoying every bite. Another long night of hard work without any hope of sleep had, as they usually did, done wonders for his appetite, and while the delicate and often uneven balance of social functions by day and antisocial ones by night was difficult for him at the best of times, on this occasion Bruce was thankful for his decision to approve a charity's request that he host its mass barbecue and fundraising event at his home. It was a bright summer morning and the weather was glorious, the sun gleaming cheerfully in the sky, guests feeling its warmth on their backs as they sipped cool iced drinks and ate delicious food and chatted among themselves. Guys and girls dressed as fairytale characters or cuddly animals sweated in their costumes, suffering for their passion as they moved through the crowds of guests with buckets collecting cash donations and cheques for the Gotham Support Centre for Homeless and Endangered Children. It had been the fact that it was this charity, one that helped frightened and vulnerable kids in a dangerous city, that had driven Bruce to approve their application for help and he had even contributed a quarter-million dollar donation to the cause in private himself. 'I was hoping it would be,' he told Clark after swallowing a mouthful of sandwich. 'Kids need organisations like this.'

'You got that right,' agreed Lois Lane, hanging on Clark's arm, her peach sundress subtly complimenting her partner's combination of navy blue suit, white shirt and burgundy tie. 'They should set up something like that in Metropolis. God knows there are enough kids there who need a helping hand.'

'D'you give much yourself?' asked Clark.

'Are you here for the food, or for the Planet?' asked Bruce shrewdly, a small smile reassuring Clark that no affront was intended by his caution.

'Oh Bruce,' sighed Lois. 'You know we appreciate your invitation, but Perry did kinda suggest that if we were going to accept we cover the charity drive too.' She was always one for brutal, shameless honesty. It was a good quality.

'In that case,' said Bruce, 'no comment.'

'Damn,' Lois muttered.

Clark grinned. 'No harm in trying, Lois,' he said. 'But even billionaires sometimes have to keep their secrets.' He winked at Bruce, a subtle salute to the secret they both shared.

'Bruce!' a woman interrupted, cannonballing in between Lois and Clark and separating them. 'Great barbecue!' she gushed, her bursting curls of red hair bouncing all over the place and cascading down her pale green dress in a way that set off her ice-sliver blue eyes and made Lois Lane scowl with envious frustration.

'Hey, Amber,' Bruce nodded almost dismissively and continued to munch on his sandwich.

Amber Madden was the new girl in town. Her father had owned a successful business in another state and recently died. Amber, being his only surviving relative, inherited everything, something in the region of three hundred and seventy million dollars, and she'd sold the entire company to one of its foreign competitors, making her fortune up to just under five hundred million, and chosen to spend the rest of her life simply enjoying it. She had moved to Gotham because she felt that she ought to find herself a rich playmate and had always fancied Bruce Wayne. So far, though, he'd shown no interest in her, but she'd been happy to amuse herself with other suitors of various talents and means. She was entertaining such an interest now and had the gentleman with her. She had spotted Bruce talking to those two big city news reporters and decided to rush over and introduce her beau, partly because she felt they had a lot in common and partly because she hoped that Bruce would get jealous and decide he wanted Amber for himself. 'Bruce,' she squealed excitedly. 'I'd like you to meet Roger Marcenby.' Hastily she added, 'He's British.'

'How d'you do, Mr Wayne,' Marcenby smiled politely and offered a hand.

Bruce shook and felt something scrape his palm. Instinctively he jerked his hand out of Marcenby's and then blushed at his own rudeness. 'Sorry, Mr Marcenby,' he said sheepishly.

'My fault, old chap,' Marcenby said kindly with a soft smile. 'Should've warned you about my callouses. And please do call me Roger.'

'Bruce,' Bruce Wayne nodded politely back, thankful that Marcenby's typically English laid-back manner had saved him a moment of awkwardness. 'I hope I'm not being intrusive, but…'

'Icthyosis of the epidermal layers,' Marcenby explained, sensing the question. 'Only affects the hands, thankfully, and I do moisturise as often as possible. Can't today, of course, as it's informal eating.'

'Informal eating?'

'With the bare hands, old man. No cutlery. Can't have moisturising cream getting on the hotdogs.'

Bruce chuckled. 'Of course. Have you had something to eat?'

Marcenby nodded. 'Yes, thank you. Plenty. Couldn't eat another crumb. Your barbecue chefs really are the pick.' He made a show of licking his lips.

'Have you made a donation?'

'God yes. Can't have the kiddies suffering, can we? Probably not as much as you've given, but then I'm probably not as wealthy as you are. Care to discuss? I'm not press.'

Bruce nodded and smiled. 'Sure, let's walk.'

'Excuse me, Amber dear,' Marcenby smiled and pecked the redhead on the cheek. 'Gents talk. I'll come and find you later.' And he strolled off across the gardens with Bruce.

'So who goes first?' asked Bruce.

Roger grinned. 'Let's get the bigger boast out of the way, shall we?'

Bruce chuckled. He was beginning to like the eccentric Englishman in his neat charcoal-grey suit with a loud purple shirt and silver tie. 'A quarter-million,' he confessed.

Roger gave out a long whistle. 'Impressive. I only managed a hundred grand.'

'That's still very generous,' Bruce commended him. 'How much are you worth altogether?'

'Just under a hundred and forty-four million,' Roger told him. 'And I didn't earn that. Spot of luck on the European Lottery last year.'

Bruce was impressed. 'Congratulations,' he said earnestly. 'What do you plan to do with the rest?'

'Shrewd question. To tell you the truth, I've seen Lottery winners of days gone by fall from grace. They win a fortune, think they're set up for life, blow the lot and are in debt because they thought a million was more than it actually was. Don't want to make that mistake, so I've invested the lion's share to make sure the pennies keep rolling in.'

'Wise move.'

'Thanks.'

'You're investing in British companies?'

'Jesus Christ, no. Not with the taxman breathing down the neck of any man who has so much as a pair of ha'pennies to rub together. I've sunk a lot of it into European and American organisations because it's more revenue and less ripping-you. I was rather hoping to meet you today, actually, because I had in mind a little private enterprise in which you may be interested.'

Bruce laughed as he realised Roger's purpose in agreeing to be the irksome Amber Madden's Plus One. He also found that he couldn't contain his curiosity. 'What's your proposal?'

Roger fished in his suit pocket and produced a small gadget, offering it to Bruce. 'Micro DNA Instant Register Tracker,' he explained to the billionaire. 'Scrape, check, match in two seconds.'

Bruce took it and examined it. Already his head was full of the useful implications it had for his night-time work. 'Can it really get an accurate DNA match instantly?'

'In the blink of an eye, Bruce,' Roger promised.

'I want it,' Bruce said flatly.

'Swop you for a two per cent share in Wayne Tech,' Roger smirked cheerfully. 'Haven't patented it yet and that's the only working model, the prototype, so you get all the manufacture rights and the lot, really.'

'And all you want is two per cent of Wayne Tech?'

'Don't say "all" in that irritating billionaire way that suggests it's not a lot,' Roger chuckled. 'Two per cent of Wayne Tech is worth eighteen times my total winnings. A share of that calibre would put me in an extremely comfortable position.'

'I need to run tests on this to see if it's as good as you say it is,' Bruce told him, holding up the gadget. 'But it won't take long, and if it hits the mark I'll give you _five_ per cent of Wayne Tech for it.'

Roger reached out and clapped Bruce hard on the shoulder. 'You speak my language, Bruce,' he said delightedly. 'I can see I'm going to enjoy doing business with you.'

**TWO**

Joe Beavon's car screeched to an abrupt halt and he got out, leaving the headlights on, twin beams fixed upon the figure that lay in the road. He knew he hadn't been the one who had hit her, but he was nonetheless concerned about the tiny woman in a heap at his feet. He had a large family and knew that he would not want anyone to find his sister or one of his daughters in this state and just leave her. He crouched beside her, reaching out a tentative hand to touch her arm. 'Um, Miss?' he croaked quietly. 'Ma'am?' He had no idea what to call her. He gently squeezed her arm in the desperate hope of a reaction. 'Young lady? Are you all right?'

'Oh, sure pumpkin!' a lively voice squeaked from the baggy overcoat. In a single fluid movement she rolled onto her back, wrapped her legs around Joe's body, pinning his arms to his waist, and jabbed the muzzle of a small handgun into his chin. 'Care to dance?'

Joe trembled as he looked at the girl. She was tiny and yet incredibly strong, and he couldn't wriggle free of her grip. Her overcoat had fallen away to reveal that she wore a one-piece coverall of some stretchy material, skin-tight and formed of alternating patches of black and blood-red, her face was painted white and she wore a domino mask. Normally Joe would have found it very pleasing to find himself caught between the thighs of such a fine young thing, but he quaked with terror, far more than simply because there was a gun stabbing coldly at his jaw. This girl, whoever she was, had to be some kind of psychopath.

'Don't hog all the fun, darling,' a man's voice intoned from the shadows outside the yield of the Ford's headlights. The man stepped into the light and allowed himself to be seen. 'Save me a slice, won't you?'

Joe Beavon felt the warmth and wetness between his legs, soaking the crotch of his trousers. The man standing over them wore a pinstripe purple suit, black shoes and spats, a pink shirt and a green kipper tie. His face was milk-white, his lips Diablo red and his hair almost luminescent green. Joe had heard all about the Joker but never met him, and he had prayed all his life that he would not.

'Eww!' squeaked the pretty girl as she smelt Joe's disgrace. 'The dirty bum's peed his pants, Mr J! Can I let go of him?'

The Joker produced a Magnum .357 and pointed it at Joe. 'Sure Harley,' he grinned. 'If he moves, his bladder won't be the only thing whose contents are making a puddle in the road.'

Harley Quinn shrugged out of the overcoat she'd stolen and worn as cover to play dead in the road and left it. It was a nice one and she'd initially thought of keeping it, but Beavon had wet the tails and she wasn't about to do his laundry. She performed a neat reverse-gambol and straightened up to stand beside the Joker. Even as a man of average height and build, he towered over the tiny slip of a girl. 'So what're you gonna do with him?' Harley asked.

The Joker used his free hand to scratch an imaginary beard as if in thought, though of course it was all part of his macabre show. He played to an audience even when it was his next terrified victim. 'Oh, I dunno Harl,' he shrugged blithely. 'We could play Twister or dominoes, I could teach him all the words to _Good Ship Venus_…' Then in a flash he was crouching about a foot from Beavon, the barrel of his Magnum jammed right in his victim's ear. 'Or maybe I could blow his fuckin' brains out just for jolly!' he growled, maniacal eyes burning into Beavon's mind. 'Tell ya what, Joe: you choose for me, huh?'

'Please don't kill me,' Joe whimpered pathetically. He sounded more like an injured dog than a man. 'Please, Jesus Christ please. I got a wife and five kids. I don't wanna die. I swear to God I'll do anything you want.'

The Joker seemed to think on this. Then he broke into an enormous grin. 'Anything?'

'Just say the word,' Joe promised. 'You're the boss.'

'You said it in front of Harley…'

'Yeah, you got a witness. I swear, in front of her, I'll do whatever you say if you just let me live.'

The Joker looked up at his accomplice. 'You heard him, Harley?'

'Every word, Mr J,' Harley chirped. 'He said he'll do whatever you say.'

The Joker nodded, his grin flattening to a tight-lipped smile, and he stood up, his gun still pointing at Joe Beavon. 'Well then, I got plans for ya, Joe. You and I are gonna do a little work together, and I think under my guidance you could go a long way, but there is one thing I think you should do before we start on any of the big stuff.'

'You got it boss,' Joe nodded. 'Name it.'

'Take a bath and change into a clean pair of pants,' the Joker said. 'Harley and I are pretty big on personal hygiene.'

And he roared with laughter.

Nigel Claverdon was alive. He was in a bad way, but he was alive. The car had seemed to roll forever after it had spun off the road and Nigel was sure that he'd either be crushed or blown to bits. There had been a raucous crash and Nigel had been knocked unconscious, and when he'd come round he'd found himself on a derelict railway siding. This, he thought, must have been abandoned when the monorail was built, and there would be an old station or locomotive shed nearby that he could use as his temporary home. By some miracle none of his bones were broken, and so he had decided to start walking immediately. It was a long walk and took several hours, but he finally made it to an old station. A couple of ancient engines and carriages rusted on their tracks and Nigel wondered if there might be some long-forgotten fuel in any of them that he could use to make a fire to dry his clothes and keep himself warm. The trains really were old – older than he'd initially thought, late steam age – and it occurred to him that this old railway had not been abandoned for the sake of the monorail; more likely it had been dumped for the electric railway that preceded the monorail. There was coal in the boiler of one of the engines and Nigel managed to get it out and build himself a brazier using an old bin. In the flickering evening shadows cast by the flames the carriages looked eerie and he was reminded of a song: _Under Your Thumb_ by Godley and Creme. That song had been the story of a man who'd sheltered inside a derelict railway carriage and been haunted by the ghost of a woman who had thrown herself from the train long ago in order to escape an abusive partner. Nigel wondered if there were any old ghosts here, and the thought made him shiver. He wasn't entirely alone; there were plenty of rats and nesting birds about, and as a pigeon flew past, heading up into the rafters of the old station, Nigel realised he was incredibly hungry. He hadn't eaten a scrap for two days and he'd walked a long distance. The pigeons, being so high up, would be hard to get, but more desirable as a food source than the rats. Nigel began to search around the station for a way to bring some of the birds down. His search of the station was fruitless and so he decided to board one of the carriages and search that. When he pulled a door open, many of the birds swarmed out in a massive cloud of grey and white, and it occurred to Nigel that had he thought of that then getting one for supper might have been easier. There would be some in the next carriage, he thought, but he'd have to be clever. He'd have to kill at least one before they managed to get out so that he'd stand a chance of a decent meal. He tore the sleeve off his shirt, hung it over the brazier until the cotton caught, then quickly ran and stuffed it under the door of the carriage. The door was very old and dry wood and managed to catch fire quite quickly. A commotion came from inside the carriage and some birds made their way out through broken windows, but there weren't large enough holes for them to get out quickly in large numbers. Nigel happily watched the carriage door burn for a bit, then went and kicked it in. The rest of the pigeons hurried out, clearing the area. Nigel let the fallen door burn. There wasn't anything he could do to stop it anyway and so he'd have to let it destroy the carriage. Once it had done that it would spread to the next carriage and raze that too. It most likely wouldn't be powerful enough to do much to the iron engine or the concrete platform, and so after the carriages were reduced to ashes the fire would probably die, but at least for a couple of days Nigel would be warm. There were a few dead pigeons near the door, some too badly burnt to be salvaged, but a couple that the fire hadn't touched. They'd most likely died from inhaling smoke. 'Smoked pigeon for supper, Nigel old son,' Nigel said quietly to himself as he carefully grabbed them and took them to the brazier.

After he had eaten, Nigel wondered about something to drink, but he knew that even if he found any water nearby it would be stagnant and probably tainted with animal waste and all sorts of muck. He'd have to get out soon, but that would mean running into danger. He took his mobile phone from the pocket of his overcoat. There was a signal, but he feared that calling the police would not help him because the men hunting him probably had contacts on the force who would hand over his location. He wondered what to do, staring at the burning carriages. Then it hit him. The fire service! No one would think to tap their lines, and if he made the call anonymously, slung on his best attempt at an American accent, no one who might be listening in would bat an eyelid. Quickly he dialled 911. 'Fire, please,' he said in a surprisingly good Brooklyn dialect. 'Ah, yeah, I'm on the freeway about a quarter mile south west of the Kane Bridge. I can see some flames a little way out and some black smoke. Think the old abandoned train station may be on fire.' They asked his name. He had to think quickly. An old radio presenter from his childhood days popped into his head. 'Wright. Steve Wright. Yeah I'll wait by the bank. Okay thanks.'

He waited, watching the coaches burn in the night. The fire in the brazier had gone out, but that didn't matter anymore. Everything would be fine soon. He could get back to the City in a fire engine or an ambulance, then call a taxi to get him to the airport. He'd have to look for a cancellation and he couldn't guarantee there'd be one soon for a plane to England, so he'd just take the first available seat going anywhere. Anywhere as long as it was away from Gotham.

**THREE**

Batman _did_ have a phone tap on fire service lines. He had a tap on every vital line in the City. Such things often came in useful. Seated at the vast, complex computer in his cave, he listened to the call and triangulated its location by getting a fix on the signal. 'That call wasn't made from the freeway,' he observed as he looked at the flashing cursor marking the spot on the gigantic holographic map. 'It was made from _inside_ the disused station.'

'It rather poses a quandary, sir,' Alfred said as he put a steaming mug of coffee onto the desk space in front of the computer in a place where Batman was likely to reach it but unlikely to knock it over. 'What kind of person would start a fire in the middle of nowhere and then report it and give a false location even though he knows the firefighters will find him there?'

Batman was very subtly reminded of the puzzles and challenges set him long ago by the Riddler. 'The kind of person who wants the firefighters to know where he is, but not _who_ he is.' He stood up, knocking the coffee mug over and smashing it. 'I think it's Claverdon,' he announced, ignoring the look of disdain on his butler's face. 'He probably wants to be rescued but doesn't want anyone knowing _who_ is being rescued. He's scared.'

'Of whom, sir?' Alfred asked as he opened a small locker on the cave wall and took out a dustpan and brush.

'I don't know, Alfred,' Batman answered, making for his car. 'But I'm going to.' He leapt into the car and closed the canopy shutter over his head. As the engine roared into life and he sped out into the night, he knew he would need to be first on the scene and he wouldn't have long before the fire crew got there to snatch Claverdon.

'Mickey Carey,' the Joker grinned from the back seat of Joe Beavon's car. 'Ringing any bells?'

'Don't mean nothin' to me,' Joe lied with a shrug.

'Really?' the Joker retorted in mock surprise. 'My my, we have a short memory, don't we? What about all that time you spent together at the pleasure of the State? I heard you were roomies for seven years!'

Harley chuckled. 'You boys have a lovers' tiff or something?' she asked saucily, nudging Joker with her elbow slightly. He nudged her back hard, nearly cracking a rib and making her squeal in pain.

'Uh, oh yeah,' Joe stammered, realising that there was nothing he could hide from these two clowns. 'Mickey. Slipped my mind for a minute.'

'Tsk tsk!' the Joker chided him. 'It's not polite to forget your old friends. So what's old Mickey-boy doing these days? Still sewing mailbags? Or has he gone up in the world?'

'I heard he was, um, jobbing around,' Joe replied uncomfortably. 'He got out a couple of years ago on good behaviour and since then I think he's done a couple of hits for guys like Rupert Thorne. Kinda ironic, huh?'

'I'm no stranger to irony,' the Joker mused. 'Being a clown who enjoys killing people does that to a guy. But that's not important right now; what's important is your good old friend Mickey, who's currently a guest of the Gotham Police Department.'

'Yeah?' Joe sniffed. 'And whaddya want me to do? Bust him out or something?'

The Joker shook his head and grinned wildly into the rear-view mirror, the look in his eyes making Joe's flesh crawl. 'Oh no, not at all Joseph old man,' he cackled. 'A couple of hours and he'd be out on bail anyway. No, I actually want you to kill him. He's getting in the way a little.'

'Getting in the way of what?' asked Joe, not entirely against the idea of whacking Carey but extremely nervous. He'd done a few hits himself back in the day but he'd never before been called upon to knock off someone he knew.

'My business,' said the Joker bluntly. 'So you and I are going to drive up to the police station and you're going to do him in. Harley here has some other work to do, eh cupcake?'

Harley beamed. It was rare that the Joker said or did anything to indicate that he felt any affection for her, but when he did it made her feel ready to do anything he desired. 'Right on it, Mr J!' she said cheerfully, opening the car door.

The Joker gave her a hard shove, forcing her to tumble out, and then closed the door behind her. 'Get movin' fatso!' he growled, and Joe started the car and sped off.

Irked and rueful, Harley stood up, dusted herself down and pulled the hood of her suit back up, tucking in the bunches of her hair and making herself what she would call presentable to the public. She picked up the heavy rucksack that Joker had made her bring and hitched it on her shoulder. Gritting her teeth, she walked back to the car that Joker had used to get them both out to the spot where they were to pick Joe Beavon up and then hidden. She could sling the rucksack on the back seat when she got there and then drive down to the tenements. There was enough TNT in that rucksack to take out four or five blocks, and the police would come running just as soon as she let them know it was there, leaving Mickey Carey virtually unattended.

There was a good blaze going by the time Batman arrived at the old train station, and he rushed inside. There was smoke everywhere and it was hard to see, but he spotted a silhouette moving about twenty metres away. 'Claverdon!' he shouted, fighting back the urge to cough. 'Claverdon, get out of here. The smoke will kill you.' The figure darted out of sight and Batman made to follow it. His boot hit something and he tripped over it, crashing down and landing on something relatively soft. Quickly he raised himself a little to look at what he had stumbled upon. It was Nigel Claverdon with a large gunshot wound in the centre of his head. Unable to fight the smoke anymore, hacking and spluttering, Batman got out of the station quickly and returned to his car, wherein he concealed himself securely and put on an oxygen mask attached to a small portable nebuliser. He would soon feel better, and in the meantime the firemen could deal with the blaze. Mickey Carey was still locked up and Teo Judd was in the morgue. Who was the other figure that Batman had seen just before he'd found Claverdon? And who was he working for? A light flashed on the lower section of the car's dashboard. The police radio. Batman risked removing his respirator for a moment and answered the call. 'Commissioner?'

'Harley Quinn just called,' Jim Gordon said instantly. 'She's in one of the downtown tenements with a bag of explosives and she wants ten million dollars.'

'I'm on my way,' Batman croaked, cutting the call and pulling the oxygen mask back on.

**FOUR**

The street was completely blocked with squad cars when Batman's car arrived and he was forced to park it in a narrow sidestreet. The dark façade of several tenement buildings reached skyward on both sides of the road, blocking out all but the strongest and most perseverant light from the sky. Only the streetlamps provided any means to observe the old, dirty and crumbling brickwork, the rusting metal fire escapes and the battered and mostly boarded-up windows. The only other lights were those on the crests of the police vehicles. Commissioner Gordon himself had attended this call-out; it wasn't customary, but he'd felt it necessary. Harley Quinn was a high-profile criminal psychopath and this was one of her biggest stunts yet. SWAT had been called and they were running the show, but Gordon was ready to step in just in case. SWAT boys were known to be trigger-happy and had a tendency to take things a little too far. Gordon knew most of them would surely fancy being in the headlines as the man who took down Harley Quinn. But why was Harley on her own for this showdown? She'd never pulled anything this big solo before. This had to be an errand, one of the Joker's plots, and that possibility worried Gordon, because it meant that while half the GPD was here handling this situation, far fewer officers were free to keep an eye out for the Joker.

'Harley Quinn,' Captain McNally of SWAT commanded through a powerful megaphone. 'This is the police. We have you surrounded. Disarm your explosives, put down your weapons and come out with your hands above your head.'

A third floor window opened and in response to it a chorus of metallic clicks rang out as the SWAT boys cocked their rifles. A box sat on the window-sill inside the tenement and Gordon could see that it was a speaker. A loud noise came through it, the sound of Harley Quinn rudely blowing a raspberry in answer to SWAT's ultimatum. 'Sucks to you, copper!' Harley's voice rang from the speaker. 'I'm babysittin'!'

McNally turned to Gordon, a worried look on his face. 'Babysitting?'

'She must have hostages,' Gordon concluded. 'And some of them are children. Dear God.'

'No,' another voice leant itself to the conversation. Gordon didn't need to turn to see whose it was. 'She means the bomb,' Batman said. 'You should know by now that she's been trained in sick humour by the Joker and euphemisms like that roll off her tongue as easily as his.'

'So you don't think there's anyone up there with her?' asked Gordon.

'No,' Batman answered. 'I don't. But that doesn't mean the rest of the local area is safe. How big a radius have you been able to evacuate?' he asked McNally.

'Mile and a half,' McNally answered. 'But that's not gonna help much. This block is right over a domestic gas supply main. If there's an explosion here, half the City could go up in smoke.'

The Joker had thought about this. He'd taken care and paid a great deal of attention to detail. He'd needed something that would pull a lot of cops to one place – a place that was away from the police station. 'Keep her talking,' Batman said quickly. 'She loves to put on a show and she won't detonate the bomb unless she's got time to get out.' He jumped on top of a police car.

'Where are you going?' Gordon asked.

'The police headquarters,' Batman answered, and ran across the roofs of the cars into the darkness at the end of the road.

'Hey, pigs!' Harley called over the loudspeaker. 'Where's my ten million? I need to buy another karaoke machine. This one's a piece of crud.'

McNally was about to respond, but Gordon snatched the megaphone off him. 'Ten million is hard to get at this time of night, Harley,' he called. 'The banks are closed.'

'Just have to wait till morning then, huh?' Harley retorted. 'Shame you didn't bring any donuts. You could pass 'em around! Maybe I can entertain yas!'

Everything went quiet for a moment. Gordon waited but the suspense was driving him crazy. He raised the megaphone again. 'Harley, what are you doing?'

Suddenly the speaker in the tenement window erupted with music, followed immediately by Harley's voice, singing very badly a rendition of the Dolly Parton hit _Jolene_. Gordon cringed and hoped that whatever Batman was doing he'd do it soon and put a stop to the caterwauling of this unholy terror in the process.

Roger Marcenby woke up in a strange bed. It wasn't the first time that had happened in his life, but it was the first time it had happened since he'd landed in Gotham. His head was a little heavy but he didn't have a hangover. Indeed, he had been fortunate never to have suffered one in his life and seemed enviably immune to them. His memory of the night before was vague, though. He recalled going to a party with Amber Madden and then her insistence on him seeing her home. She didn't go for the big mansion house look like Bruce Wayne did, feeling that she wouldn't like to have to clean a place so large and had better things to spend her fortune on than the payment of domestic staff. Her expensive penthouse apartment was however not unimpressive, and certainly well-furnished and comfortable. Marcenby lay in Amber's luxurious king-size bed and closed his eyes. He could smell traces of the wine he and she had guzzled together, the butts of the cigars he'd smoked, the stale musk of sex. The actual images of the night were still a blur, but he knew what had happened. Amber was not in the bed beside him, and he wondered where she had gone. He opened his eyes again and made to sit up.

'Don't get up, darling,' Amber's voice called and Marcenby looked to his left. She was standing in the doorway to the bedroom wearing a silver-coloured sheer silk dressing gown that had been left hanging open to display her delicious figure and ice-blue underwear. Marcenby gawked at the sight of her and wondered why the girl might have thought she'd need to get him drunk. Even sober as a judge he'd have delighted in taking such pleasures. 'I mean, don't get to your feet,' she continued seductively. 'I'm not done with you yet.'

'You've, er, changed,' Marcenby smiled weakly. 'You look lovely.'

'You're such a charmer,' Amber grinned wolfishly as she padded into the room, dropping her dressing gown casually onto the floor. 'I like to greet each new day with something fresh.' She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her knickers to indicate that she might pull them down. 'So how do you like me? With or without?'

'With, for the moment,' Marcenby answered, pretending to keep his cool but still itching to get his hands on her. 'I like to have a little work to do. Anticipation is half the fun.'

'Not what you said last night, sweetheart,' Amber giggled, releasing her waistband and resting her hands on her hips.

'I was drunk last night,' Marcenby reminded her. 'We both were.'

Suddenly Amber took a flying leap and was instantly straddling his legs when she landed. 'Hell of a performance for a drunk,' she said, her eyes glowing. 'Can't wait to see how you dance when you're sober.'

Grinning, Marcenby reached up for her and put his arms around her neck. As they passionately kissed, he pushed his fingers into her hair just above the nape of her neck. Amidst the bouncing curls he felt a small, round hard object and was relieved that he had managed to secure the device on her without her noticing during their previous round of sex. He hadn't been that drunk, then.

With most of the cops out on the Harley gig, it had been Harvey Bullock and Renee Montoya who had been assigned the unpleasant job of attending Nigel Claverdon's post mortem examination. Dr Deal was the duty pathologist and had already removed the bullet from Claverdon's head and sent it up to ballistics to be checked out. Bullock didn't want to look at the body and so he let Montoya do most of the talking, at least for the time being.

'Definitely GSW,' Dr Deal said with a nod. 'Directly to the centre of the head, obviously. Your gunman was about thirty feet away and had a really clear shot. What's interesting,' he said, pointing to the hole in Claverdon's forehead, 'is that this is the _exit_ wound.'

Montoya was surprised. 'He was shot right between the eyes from behind?' she gasped.

'Surely,' nodded Dr Deal.

Bullock chimed in. 'Who the hell is so good a shot that he can pull one that neat from behind? He's gotta be a marksman.'

'Maybe he was ex-special forces,' inferred Montoya. 'Navy SEAL or something.'

Bullock shrugged. 'Yeah, maybe. Anything on the bullet?' he asked the pathologist.

Deal picked up a small sheaf of papers from his workbench. 'Kel-Tec PF-9,' he read aloud to the officers. 'A pocket pistol. Compact, light and semi-automatic. You could put this on a tape around your neck and no one would notice it under your shirt. Hell, you could risk putting it in the breast pocket of your shirt.'

'So the killer can get a guy right between the eyes from behind, from thirty feet away with a tiny gun when there's a fire blazing right next to him?' Bullock concluded. 'This guy's more than a fuckin' Navy SEAL, Montoya.'

'Well, whoever he is, we gotta get him, and the first step to doing that is finding the gun,' Montoya replied.

'You better hope it's licensed,' Bullock told her as they left the pathologist's lab. 'Or else we could just as well be looking for a fart in a hot tub.'

**FIVE**

The usual custom, as everyone knows, when visiting a police station (unless of course one is being taken into custody) is to enter the building via the front door and approach the desk, but custom was never particularly well-suited to the Batman, and of course he dropped into the yard on a line, entered the security code to the cell block's outer door and slipped in, but he was too late. The narrow corridor that was lined with holding cells stank, the walls and floor dripped with blood, and officers and detainees alike lay dead on the concrete. One of them was Mickey Carey. He'd been shot up pretty badly with some sort of automatic weapon, as had they all. Batman returned to the yard and examined it. There were boot-prints of blood on the tarmac and he crouched to examine them. He knew no one would disturb him. Most of the officers were out dealing with Harley Quinn and the rest were inside the station, all quite dead. Batman looked around in the low floodlighting and couldn't make out much more than the obvious, and so he produced a small but powerful torch from his utility belt and looked at the bloody footprints closely. There were three sets. One set belonged of course to Batman; he'd made them upon coming back out of the block after stepping in blood. Another set would be the Joker's, but whose was the third? Joker had obviously felt that this was a two-man job and Harley, being needed for use as a decoy, was unavailable. Who was helping the Joker? He decided to look around for more evidence. Why, he wondered, had they come into this yard? They would certainly not have entered the police station this way. They'd have burst in through the front, guns blazing, and charged up to the cell block. Batman stopped looking at the floor and looked at the walls. The yard was a high-walled square, an enclosed space especially designed to allow overnight detainees a place to exercise from which they could not escape. One wall was dominated by a huge spray-painted grinning cartoon face and the message "EVER BEEN HAD?" in enormous letters: a reference to being tricked and decoyed. Joker had come out here to leave his calling card so that he could laugh at the police officers returning from their wild goose chase at the tenements later.

In the shadows in the corner of the yard, only just inside the yield of the lamps, the edge of a rounded object caught in Batman's periphery. He used his torch and found it to be a spray paint can. The Joker had made the fundamental error of leaving it behind. Of course he wouldn't be stupid enough to leave fingerprints, but what if he'd let his unknown accomplice handle it? Batman would of course have to leave the can there for the police to find and use in their own evidence, so there was no time to get it away and fingerprint it, but there was one other chance. Marcenby's DNA detector. Experts at Wayne Tech had adapted it into a handheld device that stored DNA records, and Batman had downloaded every record in Gotham onto it from the massive computer in his cave – especially the records linked with known felons. He rolled the small roller-tip of the detector over the canister and then pressed the scan button. The little gadget beeped and Batman read the screen. Joseph Alder Beavon. Convicted on numerous occasions of violent assault, rape, burglary, armed robbery and drug trafficking among other sins. So now Batman knew who Joker's new accomplice was, and the only question left unanswered was why? Not so much why Beavon would help Joker; he was either paid or threatened, but why Joker would need him. Joker could easily have killed Carey himself. Okay, the charge on the police station really did need two because even with machine guns one man on his own might take a bullet from a cop if he didn't have covering fire, but Joker needn't have attacked the police station at all. He could have waited for Carey to get out on bail and then just shot him on the way home. There had to be a reason why it was vital to the Joker that Carey died in custody. Wondering if there might be another clue to what it was, Batman went back inside the police station.

Batman wasn't the only one using Marcenby's DNA checker that night. Marcenby happened also to be using it himself. He'd taken a light roll from Amber's neck after he'd popped a tiny tracking device into her hair and now checked it against the other discreetly taken sample he had been given on the laptop in his hotel room. The match was identical. 'Oh, you have been clever, haven't you my dear?' Marcenby murmured quietly. 'But not clever enough.'

The sound of Harley Quinn loudly and poorly singing _Somewhere Over the Rainbow_ rang out over the mass of police cars, and while Commissioner Gordon and Captain McNally wished they were somewhere over the rainbow and hoped that the noise would end soon, they did not notice Harley sneaking down a fire escape at the back of the tenement building and climbing into Joe Beavon's car. 'Eww, Mr J!' she squealed as she found herself sharing the back seat with Beavon's grinning corpse. 'Can I come shotgun?'

'Sorry hun, no time,' the Joker answered with mock sadness as he started the car. 'Just throw him out the other door, will you cupcake?'

Harley sighed. 'Sure thing, puddin'' she answered dreamily, reaching gingerly over the body and opening the door of the moving car. She gave Beavon's remains a kick and he rolled out into the road. 'That recording on the karaoke machine should keep the cops guessing awhile, huh?' she chuckled.

'It was a pretty smart idea,' the Joker conceded unusually gratefully. 'Almost worthy of me!'

'So where to now?' Harley asked, not actually minding where she went as long as she went with him.

'We have to go and pay a visit on our erstwhile employer,' the Joker cackled. 'The job's been done and now it's time to discuss payment, and a little more than these.' He threw a flutter of banknotes over his shoulder.

Harley caught a few and found them to be bloodstained. 'Gross, Mr J,' she frowned.

'Exactly what I intend to do,' the Joker laughed. 'I should be grossing a good million for this gig.'

Roger Marcenby's gun was pointed at the centre of Amber Madden's head. Amber stood perfectly still, terrified for the first time in a very long time. 'You thought I wouldn't track you down, didn't you?' Marcenby asked quietly. 'Or rather you thought Shelley wouldn't. You'd never have guessed I was working for her.'

'What's she paying you?' Amber snapped. She sounded completely different. The ditzy dame had vanished and in her place stood a sophisticated woman. 'Whatever it is, I'll double it if you get out of here now, go back and tell her you couldn't find me.'

Marcenby shook his head. 'This goes way beyond money, Christine,' he said. 'You know that, I know that.'

'Every man has his price,' Amber smirked.

'You couldn't afford me, love,' Marcenby retorted. 'Oh sure, you could afford a face lift and a name change, a move to Gotham so that you can disappear without trace, but even Bruce Wayne couldn't buy my morals, so you don't stand a chance.'

Amber laughed aloud. 'Are you serious?' she jeered.

'Deadly,' Marcenby hissed, silencing her laughter instantly. 'As I said, this isn't about money.'

'Then what the hell is it about, for God's sake?' Amber demanded.

Marcenby smiled. 'Justice,' he said simply, and pressed the barrel of the gun firmly against the centre of her forehead.

The closed balcony window of the hotel room suddenly smashed into millions of pieces. The curtains parted and a huge dark figure appeared. 'Marcenby!' Batman growled.

'Awesome!' Marcenby grinned. 'I meet the legendary Batman on my first ever visit to Gotham. I should buy another Lottery ticket while the odds are good.'

'Put the gun down,' Batman ordered. 'I can't let you do this.'

'You don't know fuck all about this, Batman,' Marcenby snapped. 'You don't how who this cow is and what she's done.'

'Her name is Christine Nadeau,' Batman said, catching Marcenby by surprise. 'And she murdered her brother.'

'You're damn right she did,' Marcenby breathed. 'Francis Nadeau was a mate of mine. Better than a mate. He was engaged to my sister, Shelley. This bitch killed him because he inherited their father's entire estate. Daddy found out that Mummy had played away and Christine here was the fruit of somebody else's loins, so she got nothing.'

'And so she killed him and stole the inheritance,' Batman nodded. 'I worked it out after I did a little digging. The evidence locker at the police station had been forced and I found a couple of fifty dollar bills that had been in Mickey Carey's possession. I checked the serial numbers with the bank and found out who withdrew them.'

Marcenby nodded. 'She killed Nigel Claverdon too,' he said. 'Nigel was working with me. The journalist thing was a cover.'

'I thought it was too much of a coincidence for two Englishmen to arrive in Gotham at the same time on the same plane and not know each other,' said Batman.

'Very astute. Anyway, she originally sent Judd and Carey to kill Nigel, but of course they fluffed it. Judd went splat on the motorway and Nigel vanished, but she worked out where his car had gone off the road and checked out the nearest likely place of shelter.'

'The old station,' Batman nodded.

'She'd paid Mickey Carey a lot to teach her how to make a shot count, and she shot him with a pocket pistol, which you'll find gaffertaped to her abdomen, just below her tits. I felt the residue of the tape she uses when I fucked her earlier.'

'Bastard,' Christine hissed.

Marcenby laughed. 'You haven't even heard the best bit, sweetheart! I knew you'd sell your penthouse and try and get out of Gotham and start up again elsewhere after you had Carey killed because someone might find the notes and trace them back to you, so I stuck a tracking device in your hair while I was shagging you as well, and that's how I found out you were staying in this hotel until your flight tomorrow afternoon.' He cackled drily. 'And you thought you were using me. Well now I'm going to play you at your own dirty game. Right between the eyes, I think.'

**SIX**

'Marcenby,' Batman asked quietly. 'Put down the gun.'

'For Jesus Christ's sake, what's the matter with you?' Marcenby shouted. 'I am not going to be doing that! Okay?'

Batman lunged for Marcenby, but the hitman was too quick and brought up his knee, driving it into Batman's groin. Marcenby was strong and despite his armour Batman took a heavy blow in a sensitive place. As he tumbled, Amber tried to run while Marcenby was distracted, but the distraction didn't last and a bullet entered her shin before she could make it to the hotel room door. She collapsed, crying out in pain. Batman recovered himself and was about to take Marcenby down when the door opened and the Joker emerged into the room with Harley Quinn in tow.

'Well now,' the Joker crowed. 'If it isn't Batfink! What's a lily-white do-gooder like you doing in a double-double-cross situation like this?'

Asserting his priorities, Batman cannonballed toward the Joker and hit him full in the midriff, knocking him to the floor. Harley rushed to the aid of her beloved, kicking Batman in the face and forcing him onto his back. While the Joker and Harley tackled Batman, Marcenby decided that discretion was the better part of valour and escaped via the balcony. As he left he shouted, 'Don't go anywhere, Christine! I'll be back for you!' He lowered himself carefully over the rail and swung himself onto the balcony below, and then repeated this exercise until he made it to the ground. He'd almost reached the safety of his car when he heard another window smash and the Batman plummeted to the ground, obviously thrown by the villains. Marcenby had disagreed with Batman's interference, but he wasn't about to leave him at the mercy of two lunatics. He hoisted Batman up and pulled him onto the back seat of his car. Then he got into the driving seat and sped away. As he drove he noticed that there was blood on his cuff. Batman's, obviously, and he wondered what his DNA scanner would make of it.

The light of morning hit Batman's eyes a little harshly as he woke up. He was in an awkward and uncomfortable position, lying on the back seat of a BMW.

'What's the matter Bruce?' Marcenby asked. 'Still caning from that kick in the goolies I gave you last night?'

Batman was about to answer when he suddenly realised what Marcenby had just called him. 'How could you know…'

'I don't have callouses on my hands, Bruce,' Marcenby explained. 'That scrape you felt when we shook was my DNA tester, the actual prototype and not the slightly more user friendly version I gave you to play with. Then when I helped you up after that skirmish with Joker you bled all over me and I got my second sample. One of Batman, one of Bruce, and guess what? I got a match. Now you're a bit of a scientist yourself and so you know that the odds of there being two different people with the same DNA living in the same city run into the realms of mathematical impossibility as well as I do.'

'What do you want from me?' Batman demanded, expecting blackmail.

'Just what we agreed on,' Marcenby told him, surprising him. 'A small share in Wayne Tech to set me up for the foreseeable. I never wanted to get involved in the business of the Batman, just that of Bruce Wayne. It's not my bleedin' fault they turned out to be the same bloke.'

'What about Amber?'

'All Shelley wanted was justice, Bruce. If I let you have Christine, can you guarantee me justice? Can I go back and tell Shelley that Christine got what was coming to her?'

'I'll make sure she goes away for a long time,' Batman nodded. 'I promise. Maybe I'll finally get the Joker and Harley too.'

'Good luck,' Marcenby smiled.

'Thanks,' Batman sighed.

'And my deal on the DNA checker?'

'Concrete. Fifteen per cent of Wayne Tech is yours as soon as I patent it.'

Fifteen. That was far better than could have been hoped for. Marcenby chewed his lip for a moment, considering. Finally he sighed. 'All right, Dark Knight. I'll leave in the morning, as soon as I hear that Christine's been sorted out.' He got back into his car.

'Marcenby,' Batman called. Marcenby looked out of the window. 'Is there a lot of crime in the city you come from?'

Marcenby looked sad. 'You'd have done better to ask poor old Nigel,' he said. 'But yeah, we have our fair share of toerags.'

'You could do a lot worse than to do for them what I do for Gotham,' Batman said.

Marcenby nodded. 'Or a lot better. Good luck Bruce. Maybe I'll see you around.' And he vanished into the night, leaving Batman wondering how two people could be so alike and yet so different.

THE END


End file.
